The Illusion and the Worlds
by Lily Duveau
Summary: AU. After seeing a mysterious woman in a mirror, Rick Castle strives to find her story, but when the Senator get assassinated the day after Rick sees him in the mirror, he decides to take drastic action to identify her.
1. Chapter 1

_She is as honest as a mirror._

* * *

"Well, since you didn't like the last one at _all_, I found this one for you yesterday. We only have a couple minutes to check it out. The owners need to pack up some more things, and then they'll be out of your hair. Well, if you _want_ it," Melissa says.

"Mel, I hired you for one reason. To find me a place to live. You haven't been doing such a great job so far, no offense."

"Rick, do you know how hard it is to find a place for you to live in New York? Very. Do you know how hard it is to find a _nice_ place in New York? Even harder. You should really appreciate me more. Apartments don't sell themselves."

"One would sell faster if you found me a nice one! I gave you criteria. Lots."

"Look, I told you we only have a couple minutes, so lets get a move on!"

She leads him through the large condo, stopping frequently to show him something interesting. "Mel, criteria. I need an office. Where am I supposed to write? The _beautiful kitchen counter_?" He mocks her.

"Well, it doesn't have an office, but it has something even better! See, if you just let me finish my tour, then we'll see it," she says, leading him up a staircase, and opens the door at the top. "This is your office!"

"This is not an office. It's a _roof,_" he says looking around the desolate plain.

"Exactly! The buildings owner says its all yours if you buy the condo," she relies excitedly. "You can have a railing installed, and you'll be the only person to have access to it. Well, other than the maids."

He walks from her, observing more. The place is bare, flat. It doesn't have as much as a single flower pot or chair. The air is crisp here, and the wind more fierce.

"What am I supposed to do in the winter? Shovel the snow off the side?" He knows he is complaining but doesn't really care anymore. Melissa and him have been to seven different apartments, and he has not considered a single one. Honestly, he might have considered this one, but the roof isn't something he wants to tend to in the future.

"Not for me, sorry," he says, studying her expression.

"Rick, if I could dream up your perfect apartment, _believe me_, I would. But I can't, so let's get back to reality. Do you want this place or not?" She asks, getting more and more frustrated with every word she says.

"No. Look, Mel, what I need is an apartment. Not a lecture about finding the 'perfect place' in New York. So until you find me a _nice_ place, with the things I requested, I don't imagine us speaking to each other soon."

"I'll keep looking. In the meantime, try and actually get some writing done. It's been a while since your last novel..."

"Yeah, thanks for the advice. And I _am_ writing a book. So stop nagging me about it. That's my editor's job," Rick joked.

She led him toward the door."If you need anything, call me."

They walk out of the apartment, and head to the elevator. Once he is out of the building, he thanks Melissa before heading to his car.

* * *

When he first moved to Washington D.C. for Derrick Storm research, he thought he was getting time away from his mother and getting writing done. Not long after, when he finished his book, he could _feel_ New York calling him back. Sadly, that meant having to stay with his mother while he tries finds a permanent home.

His old apartment was sold, (not that he loved it that much, anyway) and he put most of his things in a storage unit. Actually, he should probably check that out. See if he has anything he can put in his new apartment. Well, when he gets one.

"Mother, I'm home!"

"Well, look who it is! Have you come to unburden me by telling me you found an apartment?" Martha asks, her voice lifted from the kitchen and drifting into the living room.

"Not yet mother. But you can rest assured, this... arrangement won't last forever," he says, heading to his room.

"I hope not," Martha mutters under her breath.

He walks up the stairs briskly, opening his room door. Papers are crumpled up and thrown on the floor, and the small desk in the room is the only clean thing in the room other than the bed. He was writing all night yesterday, inspiration seeping into his mind like the air into his lungs.

His laptop sits in the center of the desk. He only uses paper when he has an idea for a book, his laptop when he's actually _writing_ the book. Which reminds him that his plot outline is due in a week. And he hasn't written anything solid (excluding last night) since D.C.

He is so screwed. He has a week to think of a plot for an entire book. A detailed plot. Well, he should get writing. He sent in the title to Gina before he left Washington to return to Manhattan. Storm Fall. _Seems fitting_, he thinks. He knows he's going to kill Storm. After 25 books, he has to say he loved writing Derrick. It just... isn't what it used to be.

He's brought out of his thoughts by the shrill ringing of his phone.

"Richard Castle here."

"Hey, Rick. Just wanted to let you know I think I found a winner."

"Really? Or is this some scam to get me to send my time with you? I _am_ ruggedly handsome, after all," he smirks into the phone as he talks.

"Yeah, _no._ I found a place that I think you are just going to _love_! It has an amazing office, and it already has furniture. Oh, and the view is spectacular!" Melissa replies.

"If you think it's that amazing, set a viewing for tomorrow," he says. He doesn't really believe her. She said that for the first five apartments they looked at.

"I've already set one for six sharp tomorrow. I'll text you the address."


	2. Chapter 2

_He is as clear as ice._

* * *

"Nice neighborhood, amazing building, and the interior is to die for," Melissa says, leading him into the luxurious building.

"I'd like to verify that, believe me," Rick states.

"Honestly, I just know you are going to love this one," she says, looking for the elevator. "Right here, Rick. It's on the 17th floor."

"So it isn't on the top floor?"

"Well, this building is only 20 stories high. The only one available is the one we're looking into now," she replies, getting off the elevator. "And there's a second floor, too."

The first thing he notices when he enters is the layout. The first floor is entirely an open space, with the kitchen, living room, and dining room spread out across the floor, the only exception being the office, which leads into the bedroom. The walls there are actually bookshelves, empty at the moment. On the wall opposite the door to the bedroom is a mirror. After closer examination, he concludes that the mirror is actually part of the wall. Probably going to be a bitch to remove, if he gets the place.

Then he sees it. It's a woman. In a mirror. He whips his head back, but there isn't anything behind him. When he turns back, the woman isn't there anymore. What the _Hell_ did he just see?

* * *

"Not exactly private. They're _bookshelves,_" he states.

"You're a writer, Rick. I _know_ you have more books than can possibly fit in here, anyway," she says, smirking.

"True, but still. Couldn't find something a little more private?"

"Please, Rick, it's not like you have two kids and a wife running around here," she jokes.

"I would. Eventually, you know," he says. He does want things like that. Despite his playboy persona, he wouldn't mind really settling down and having kids. With the right woman, of course.

"Okay, well, when that happens, give me a call," she says, laughing. "Anyway, let's head upstairs."

The second floor is a long hallway that has two bedrooms, and three other empty rooms. He assumes one is a laundry room, another might have been a nursery, and the smallest could have been a bathroom. The second floor isn't furnished at all, save the two bedrooms.

"This place is nice. Why are the owners selling it?" Rick asks.

"Well, the owner might have... died. He wasn't married at the time so the place went to his daughter. She wanted to sell it and... here we are," she answers.

"How did he die?"

"Murdered, someplace in the Bronx. Killer was never caught, you know. I can see why she would want to sell the place. But, that doesn't matter now! So, do you like it?"

Does he like it? Of course he does. Murder, mystery, intrigue, all wrapped up in one place.

"Yeah. The second floor will take a lot of work, though. A couple of rooms aren't painted upstairs, it's really dark, going to need some more lighting in some areas," he replies, still looking around. "What did the guy who used to own the place do for a living?"

"Apparently he was a cop. Dirty cop if you asked me. How could a cop afford a place like this? His daughter didn't even know he had it, until she read his will. He gave most of his things to her. You know what else was written on his will? My god, it was hilarious. It said 'I give my ex-wife, who has given me only one good thing in life, which was my daughter, fifty dollars to get drunk for the last time.'"

"You know, that isn't really funny. How do you know all of that, anyway?," Rick asks.

"Happened a couple weeks ago. Don't you remember? Look, we aren't here to talk about a dead man, so it doesn't matter. You want to buy it or not?" She asks.

"Give me a day. I'll think about it," he says, already heading towards the door.

"Better hurry. Place was booked for showings all week."

"And yet, somehow, you got one in a day?" He asks rhetorically.

"I just told them it was for you," she says, getting in the elevator after locking the apartment. "The daughter wants your last book, signed. Oh, and her name is Janet Nix, by the way."

* * *

When he leaves, Rick heads straight to his room, and opens his laptop. Her name was Janet.. Nix. That was it. He searches for her, and articles about her father pop up onto the screen. He opens the first one, and starts reading.

_**Haywood Nix Murdered in the Bronx,**_

_**Unanswered Questions About His Death**_

_On February 21st, Haywood Nix, captain of the 12th precinct, was murdered in the Bronx. An insider exclusive, we now know he owned a mysterious apartment, one that_ _could_ not _have been owned by someone with his salary. Was Mr. Nix involved in some illegal activity that ultimately resulted in his death? What was he doing in the Bronx? Our reporters talked with Janet Nix, his daughter. We have confirmed that no one in Mr. Nix's life knew about the secret apartment, but Ms. Nix seems insistent on believing her father was just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Police are now questioning Roy Montgomery, the new captain at the 12th precinct, who only has good things to gain from Mr. Nix's murder. Any further information regarding this case will be shared at a later date.__  
_

Without any hesitation, Rick calls Melissa. She picks up on the third ring, already far too long for him.

"Ri-"

"The place. Get it for me. I want it."

"You know, I had a feeling you would."


	3. Chapter 3

_She's caught in a trap of what she's taught to believe._

* * *

By the time he gets the deed to the apartment and gives Janet her book, it's been a week. He's packed up all his things from his mothers apartment (thank god he's out of there) and begun to move into his new loft. That's what Janet called it. Apparently that's it's more of a formal name, but he likes it. She thanked him for his books, although she was surprised that she got them. She never asked for them, but said she was a fan.

Melissa. He hasn't spoken to her since, paid her for her assistance and never spoke to her again. Well, he supposes he could call her. If he wanted to. Which he doesn't (and had to assure his mother several times).

When he's moving things into his office, he sees her again. He does a double take, and, again, when he looks she isn't there anymore. He's never seen her before, he knows. He would remember. From what he can remember, she has curly auburn hair that flows down to just under her breasts, and green eyes. Or brown. He couldn't tell, but she was beautiful. And tall.

He spends most time in his office writing, but he always looks at it when he walks into the room. She only appears when he isn't expecting it. And she never stays. The third time, his eyes stay locked on hers. She isn't beautiful. She's gorgeous.

"Who are you?" He asks.

He's more than surprised when she answers. "Who are _you_?"

"Rick Castle. But I asked first. What's your name?"

"I don't know."

"How could you not-" And then she's gone. She doesn't disappear in a puff of smoke or with a snap of her fingers. She's there one second and the next... she just _isn't_.

The next time she stays for longer. She still never answers his questions. How can she 'not know'? He doesn't think about it, how extremely _crazy_ he is for it. He sees a woman in a mirror. A woman who talks to him in a _mirror._ So, yes, crazy is the right word. But do crazy people ever think logical thoughts? Surely he can't be insane, but... Crazy. Yes. That's it. It has to be.

* * *

What time he isn't writing or talking to _her_, he's looking into Mr. Nix's murder. Gruesome, according to the police report he had been given from a man who owed a favor. Cause of death was stabbing, but he saw the pictures of the body. Words had been sketched into the body like his words into books. They were done before he died, the words etched into his skin were torture. But for what?

Angst, Despair, Disgust, Grief, Guilt, Hatred, Indifference, Motive, Rage, Regret, Shame, and the largest, written in capitals over the mans back, later concluded to be inflicted post-mortum: Terror.

The killer would only go to these lengths if he knew him. Well, it was a place to start. Roy Montgomery was an active participant of the case. He and Mr. Nix were old friends, but the only way Roy could ever hope to get the captain position was if Nix died. He had motive. And, sadly, an alibi.

At a bar with a friend. He didn't have enough money to hire someone to kill Nix, so he wasn't a suspect later in the case. They used every lead they had, but every suspect was clean. Or they didn't have enough evidence to keep the ones they really suspected.

He loves that it isn't easy to solve and hates it. Of course he wants to give Janet justice, but he loves the mystery. Not knowing is something he loves (and hates).

* * *

The fifth time, when he comes back from a meeting with Gina (that went well, surprisingly) he skips the questions he usually asks.

"_Why _don't you know your name?" He asks, already frustrated because nothing will come out of their conversations.

"I don't know why!"

"Then what should I call you?"

It's a while before she speaks again."Call me... Kate." Her eyes flick up to his before she disappears again.

Kate. It suits her. But now he's confused. Did she know her name or not? He'll ask her next time. Does he want a next time? He's said it before, he loves mystery, but does he want to solve hers? She's a woman in a mirror, a ghost in the light. Visible and invisible at the same time.

He doesn't tell anyone about her. Who would he tell, anyway? His mother? Definitely not. Who else is there to tell? Wow. He really needs a life. Which reminds him of his book signing that evening. Planned last week, Barnes and Noble at seven. At least he remembered about it. He has two hours to get ready, and hours of boredom await him.

When he gets there, the place is already full, and he knows this is going to be one of his longer book signings. Not that the amount of people there don't give his ego a boost, however. But it's always the same. Same people, same words, written and spoken, same _everything._

But he puts a smile on his face and signs their books. And 10, 20, 30 minutes later, that's when he sees her. It would be hard to miss. She's clearly done her makeup, and curled her hair. Melissa. She is.. what? Five people away? God, what is he going to write?

"Hey, Rick," she says, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He sits wordlessly, taking her book. When he opens it, he finds a message scribbled in what he knows is her writing.

_You never called._


	4. Chapter 4

_Trust is something he's been taught never to share._

* * *

Oh, shit. Why didn't he call? He wasn't _interested, _that's why. Great, now he has her to deal with. He brings his pen to the paper and starts writing.

_Glad you came.__ Didn't realize the time went by so quickly. I'll give you a call, I promise._

He hands her back the book and she thanks him before turning around and leaving. He expected her to stay, wait for him to talk. Not that he wanted her to stay, though. She was enough trouble to think about before she showed up.

The next few hours pass by slowly, and by the time he gets home, he's exhausted. And sh- Kate. Kate shows up again.

"Where were you?"

"Why do you even care?" He asks.

"I don't know."

"Why Kate?"

"Why what?"

"Your name. Why did you pick Kate?"

"Because that's my name." _I thought you said you didn't know, _he thinks.

"Then what's your last name?"

"Beckett. Kate Beckett."

* * *

The 12th precinct isn't too far away from his loft, but it takes him a good ten minutes to get there. He already scheduled a meeting with Montgomery, but traffic was milder than he (and Google Maps) expected it would be. The floor is abuzz with activity, detectives running around and showing files to one another.

He has to stop and ask someone where the captain's office is. They point him in the direction he was heading, telling him it was the third door on the left. He knocks before hearing what he assumes is Montgomery's voice.

"Come in!"

When he opens the door, the captain looks no less frazzled than anyone else in the building. He was expecting someone more calm, collected.

"I assume you know why I'm here?" He says, taking a seat in a chair after Montgomery gestures to it.

"Yes, I spoke with you on the phone. You wanted to talk about Haywood Nix, am I correct?" He says, moving the clutter around on his desk.

"Yeah... what did you say you were doing on the evening of the murder? Not to imply anything, of course."

"I was out with a friend at a bar. I even have a picture of him somewhere here. Just let me..." He trails off, looking around the room. "Here it is. His name is James Marwoleath. I know, it's a mouthful."

Montgomery shows him a picture of them.

"You're both wearing tuxes. His wedding?" Rick asks.

"Actually, it was mine. Wonderful day," he says, smiling as he recalls the memory.

"Who was your prime suspect, before the case was closed?"

"Look, Rick, I know you called the mayor to pull some strings to get me to talk to you about this, but that's an investigation, and you aren't a detective. I couldn't tell you if I wanted to.

"I suspected," he says, still disappointed even though he knew it was a long shot.

"Any other questions?"

"Yes, actually. I went to dinner with a woman, a couple weeks ago, around the time that Nix was murdered. I haven't spoken to her since."

"Bad date?" He jokes.

"No. I called her but she hasn't talked to me since, and I've known her for years. She wouldn't have left without telling me. I wanted to file a missing persons report."

"Just out of curiosity, what was her name?" He asks, any trace of laughter dissipated from his voice.

"Kate Beckett."

"Pretty name. The officers here are all busy at the moment, but I know that the 15th precinct doesn't have anything on their hands now. You'll be able to find your way, I assume?"

"Yes, thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

* * *

When he gets to the 15th precinct, he immediately notices how quiet it is. How can the 12th be so noisy and the 15th be so silent?

"Excuse me, where can I file a missing persons report?" He asks the first person that passes by him.

"Just head straight and take the first right. Someone should be there to help you."

He murmurs a quick 'thanks' before following the mans directions. When he gets to the end of the short hallway, he sees a desk with a man behind it.

"I'd like to file a missing persons report."

"Well, you've come to the right place," the man says. "If you could just answer some questions, that would be great."

"Okay, ask away."

His questions take an hour, and he had to be think quick about some of them.

What was the person's name? Can you describe the person's eye color, hair color, hair style, height, and weight? Does she have any permanent scars, tattoos, et cetera? Does she have any health concerns, specifically, mental health concerns?

He didn't have a picture of her, so he had to spend even more time with a sketch artist. And then he left. Gave them his phone number and told them to call if anything came up.

When he gets home to the loft, he calls Melissa. It isn't like he _asked _for her to come to his book signing. Then she plans a _dinner_ with him, and hangs up before he can even say no. For a woman who went to such great lengths to talk to him, she didn't exactly resist hanging up.

So here he is, finding a nice tux to wear for a dinner with a woman he never wanted to see again. But she came so highly recommended. That's the only reason he hired her. Because one of his poker buddies told him she came _highly recommended. _

He's going to _kill_ Patterson.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **

**A lot of things I should say now. First, I apologize because I accidentally replaced chapter 3 with the beginning of chapter 4 (spoilers!), and then uploaded the finished chapter 4. All has been fixed. Secondly, this is my first author's note, but don't expect many more. I do have lots to say, but I don't like how it adds a word count to the overall amount of words, which I keep track of. Thirdly, thank you all for your support. I would message all of you, but... that would take a long time. A long time in which I could be writing the next chapter! Fourthly, updates will be much slower when school starts on September 3rd for me.**** Lastly, I would like to thank coyotepup4 for your reviews after reading every chapter. (Although I feel like I'm forcing you to review because no one else does *wink wink* *nudge nudge*. Feel free not to. :D)**

* * *

_She is sharper than a knife._

* * *

Tux picked, tie fastened, and wallet in his pocket, he thinks he's ready to go. He's been to the restaurant before, so he doesn't have to find directions. It's an Italian place, and it's also one of his favorite restaurants in the entire city. He knows the owner, even gave him a reference in one of his books.

He picks her up at 7. She's wearing a cerulean dress, one strap over her right shoulder, the bottom of the dress nearly hitting the floor, but not quite. He has to say, she looks... nice. He compliments her before opening the door to his car. The ride is quiet even though Melissa tries to start a conversation every so often.

When they arrive at the restaurant, the host takes them to their table, and gives them their menus before excusing himself back to the entrance.

"So, what made you pick an Italian restaurant?" He asks, signaling to the waiter.

"I haven't been to this place before, but I love Italian food. Thought we could try this place out," she says. _We?_

"Interesting. Didn't think of you as an Italian girl."

"That's probably because I'm not. I'm Egyptian. Melissa _Derbala_. What, did you think I was Russian or something?"

"No, but Russian accents are hot. Did you grow up in Egypt?" he asks.

"You want to know if I had an Egyptian accent, don't you?"

"Maybe."

"I did grow up in Egypt. Flew to America when I was 21. Never picked up the Egyptian accent, though," she answers.

The waiter comes back, and they give their orders. The rest of the night goes smoothly, they talk as if they've known each other for years, and he has to say that he actually _enjoys_ it. Far from what he was expecting when she hung up on him mere hours ago.

"We should do this again," she says, getting into his car.

"You know, I think I'd like that."

* * *

When he gets back to the loft he changes into something more comfortable before sitting at his desk and turning on his laptop. James Marwoleath. That's who Montgomery said he was with the night of the murder.

After hours of searching on the internet, and even looking at an old yellow pages book he didn't remember bringing, he has to say, James is a ghost. No articles, nothing. If he was Montgomery's alibi, then he would have to see the statement.

Time to call in another favor. By the time he thinks of someone who can help him, it's already to late to call them. 11 o'clock.

"You know, if you want to get his statement, you can check the evidence unit at the twelfth precinct."

"How did you know I wanted a statement?" He asks.

"You mumble when you're focused. Wasn't hard to figure out what you were saying."

"How am I supposed to find an evidence unit in a building with multiple floors, break in to it, and steal a file?"

"You can probably find some old blueprints online."

"And you know this how?"

"I remember being there. At the twelfth. Just a memory, though. Talking to a couple detectives about a case. Nothing else significant."

"Well, thanks for your help," he huffs. "Why where you at the precinct?"

"I don't know. I don't remember what anyone was saying. Sorry."

"It's fine." _What did I expect anyway? Oh, right, you to remember something._

He returns back to his laptop when she leaves. Surprisingly, he does find the old blueprints for the precinct. If they haven't changed anything he should be good. Tomorrow, he's going to steal a file._  
_

"What are you doing?" He jumps in his chair at the sudden sound. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't see her. No. He sees the senator.

"Holy-"

"Where am I?"

* * *

He awakens at eight am, the ringing of his alarm clock deafening. He's ready for work in twenty minutes, and leaves accordingly. He remembers his dream that night, being stuck in a mirror, talking to some guy he's pretty sure he saw on page six once. Dreams mean you slept well, right?

He starts his car, turning it in the direction of his office. He has a press conference today, vital if he even wants to be in the running for senator for the years to come. It's in at least eight hours, and he has to be there in an hour. Preparation, his assistant told him. Banners need to be placed, the stage bare, the podium absent.

He knows what he has to say, how to convince people to vote. Now he just has to say it knowing the odds aren't in his favor, and might never be. He steps out of his car and enters the building. His life will end in seven hours.

* * *

**A/N: Reviews are appreciated.**


End file.
